ered out of the morning mail, and received from the prompt
and timorous debtors fearful of having their "credit cut."

He was fifteen minutes late as he stepped out upon Fourteenth Street,
valise in hand and the ready pistol once more in his pocket. The
day's "haul" was rich in checks and light in cash, but the total
was a considerable fortune.

"Serve the old brute right if I'd bolt some day with a good stake,"
wrathfully murmured Clayton. "He would be in for fifty thousand
dollars' bond! Damn his famed benevolence. He wished to anchor me
here for life, and, so cover his tracks. He might even put up a
fancied theft on me if I quarrel. I'll be out of this slavery the
very moment that Jack opens his guns. And he shall pay the last
score, to the last stiver!"

In a vain effort at self deception Randall Clayton avoided glancing
at the art window where he had seen the mysterious beauty until
he was abreast of it. But his beating heart told him already that
she was not there. He paused a moment, once more to feast his eyes
upon the picture which he proposed to order reserved for him on
his return from the Astor Place Bank. It was gone!

He started back in surprise as he saw the place of honor vacated.
There was only a mawkish color reprint of "Mary Stuart and Rizzio"
parading its faded romance in the show window. Resolutely entering,
he quickly called for the proprietor.

In his momentary excitement, Clayton failed to notice the sly twinkle
of Mr. Adolph Lilienthal's crow-footed eyes. "You had a beautiful
artist proof of a Hungarian scene in your window this morning,"
began Clayton.

"Sold, sir; you are but a few moments too late," blandly replied
Lilienthal, in his best manner. "We are just packing it up for a
lady. An exquisite thing; sorry I cannot replace it, sir," remarked
the vendor, "Show you anything else?"

"You could not order me another, could you?" blankly demanded
Clayton, with a baffled sense of losing both the lady and the art
gem.

"It was a unique proof," volubly continued Lilienthal. "I might,
however,"--he briskly turned to an assistant, and after a few words,
led the annoyed Clayton back to a counter.

There a packing case was lying, plainly marked "Fraeulein Irma
Gluyas, No. 192 Layte Street, Brooklyn."

"I might open it," hesitated the dealer, "and yet, the lady might
not like it. She paid a round price for it, a hundred dollars. And
some persons do not like to have a proof duplica